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As riding days go, this one isn’t starting too well. “I can’t believe I forgot my pants,” I lament.

My neighbor Tony and I have come about an hour from Boise to Hemingway Butte to ride desert trails to the south. Since our last ride, I’ve replaced the battery. I’m excited to have electric start again, assuming we can ride.

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Maybe it was stuffing my jacket into the bag, which I don’t always do, that made me think I already packed my pants. Tony sort of offers to drive back for them but I think we both know that isn’t feasible.

“It will look stupid but I think it will be fine,” I insist after proposing I just go without pants.

Tony is rightly skeptical. “At least take these,” he finally says after some back-and-forth, pulling off his denim shorts to add over my cotton pair.

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Perhaps others lead lives of ceaseless merriment but I think mine is more like these Owyhees. It can look drab from a distance but there is splendor to be found if we pause and consider endless small details.

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I feel a bit like that bird lately, working just to hold my ground. Company revenue where I was employed through September went below what was needed to cover my salary so, for the first time in thirty years, I’ve been without income. It’s disconcerting.

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I know I’ve mentioned it many times but I get the same feeling every time I move through these miniature landscapes — the desire to get down, maybe even lie on my side, and push toy trucks around the dirt and rocks; to make tiny houses with sticks; see what bugs might be hiding under stones. I never quite grew up that way.

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“I found your glove,” I hear Tony call from the truck. We’re back at the lot now, loading up. I was too ashamed to say earlier that not only did I leave my pants behind but I couldn’t find one of my gloves. I was sure I’d packed both. I guessed it might have blown out of the truck.

Tony was kind to ask the guys parked next to us at the lot if they had an extra pair. A kid-sized pair of stretchy knitted things (like glove liners) was the answer, perfect complement to the denim shorts and knee-high socks I would be sporting.

At least the glove is found. I don’t know how it got inside the cab from the bag in the bed of the truck but I’m glad to have it back for the next ride (for which I promise to wear pants).

As I hand Tony his denim shorts I notice the button is attached with a tiny zip-tie. I can’t believe his wife lets him mend his clothes like that. Obviously I won’t tell anyone.